Futile Devices
by Orion Kohaishu
Summary: "Stiles," Derek growls in a rather passable Schwarzenegger impression that Stiles absolutely does not laugh through. "Come with me if you want to live." - Sterek future-fic


It was bound to happen, sooner or later.

To someone who knew nothing about either of them, knew nothing about their pasts or any tragedies that had befallen in them, knew nothing about their fears or their families, knew absolutely nothing at all beyond watching them together for even a moment, would know that it was only a matter of time before it happened. You only had to see the surreptitious glances that were just more than professional as they sat shoulder to shoulder, dark heads bent over translated Latin texts. The casual touches that were just more than friendly as they constantly reached for arms or sides as they passed or talked or laughed, always within reach and always dancing, dancing around each other's orbit. The lingering moments that were just more than concerned when one or both of them was in danger, the moments of single-minded determination when the world narrowed down to a solitary focus and no one else existed anymore. The careless way they talked and laughed and moved and fought and drove each other crazy, like it was the only thing in their life that was easy. Even to someone who knew nothing about either of them, absolutely nothing at all but a single glance of a second of interaction, they were a mental countdown to when it finally, _finally_, happened.

It finally happens on an uneventful evening in March, six years after they first went to the woods looking for answers and found the other instead.

Aside from it, that evening was otherwise unremarkable. There had been no great tragedy. No kidnapping or injury of any kind (not since the run-in with the out of town hunters, fresh-faced kids out to make a name for themselves, the ones who shot Stiles after mistaking _him_ for the wolf, and now that the wounds were healed was still one of their funniest stories). No particular nasty that hit close to home for either of them, beyond their everyday run-of-the-mill nasty that had long since ceased to impress. No fight. They weren't angry with the other, or wary of something to come, or sad about the past in any way. All in all, the day leading up to the evening of inevitability was relatively, well, _dull_.

Stiles spends most of it on his laptop, too much Red Bull and a looming deadline fueling his marathoning the paper for his Mythology and Folklore course – midterms are just about a week away at this point, after all, and with the days rapidly counting down to graduation school consumes nearly every of his moments. The light from the kitchen window has gone from dawn to midday bright when Derek comes in, greeting him with a take-out container at his elbow rather than a question as to why Stiles was at _his _kitchen table instead of at his own, back in his own apartment some thirty miles away. He's always said that the house in the woods was the best place to study.

For a time there was only the sound of keys clacking away in an otherwise empty house, because the two of them had long since grown to be comfortable in the other's silence, but soon the caffeine and the cabin fever dig needles into Stiles leg and he tosses a pen across the table to get Derek's attention. "Zombies or sharks?"

"Robots." And like that they're sunk into the couch in the living room as the opening credits of _The Terminator_ play. Derek confiscates the laptop before the title sequence has even started, a half-hearted glare all it takes to convince Stiles that he's worked enough for today – he has, and he's glad for the break, but still shoves his always-too-cold feet behind Derek's back in revenge. It earns him a pillow to the face that ends up behind his back and half of the blanket from the back of the couch, carefully wrapped around his legs and tucked into the cushions securely because he hates that, hates it more than being cold. He flicks fried rice at Derek instead. "I'm cutting you off."

"I only had three." And Derek glares for real this time, because when it comes to energy drinks, Stiles isn't supposed to have _any_, and it's barely three in the afternoon. "But, to be fair, I had a paper to write-"

"That you put off for three weeks."

"Not even the point. The point is, I wrote it. So it's done. And now I can eat Chinese food and watch a terrible-"

"Brilliant."

"_Terrible_ movie and unwind." Over the course of the conversation, Derek's feet find their way to the coffee table and Stiles' find their way to his lap, and it's very comfortable and it's hard to even _fake_ argue over General Tso's, so they both relax and watch the ex-governor take out a nightclub. It's warm and familiar and content, this thing between them they've built from the ground up, brick by brick, building up walls and then tearing them down, ripping out commas between them, Derek and Stiles. They're friends and family and pack, a progression of pronouns from he and I to we, late nights on the couch watching favorite movies, impromptu road trips and quiet evenings. A Wilhelm scream and a shattering of glass and a ratta-tatta-tatta of Hollywood gunfire breaks the calm, and Stiles flinches. "We need a vacation."

"I can't believe you think this movie is terrible."

He shoves him with his foot. "And I can't believe it's not butter, Der, focus. Vacation. We need one."

"Midterms are next week, Stiles," and of course that would be his argument, _of course_. Once he'd broken down and given the pack his blessing to head off to various colleges, Derek had proven to be rather militant about their schooling – he'd once crashed a party to drag them all home because Erica had a math final the next afternoon. She'd aced it. "Spring Break is in what, nine days? You can't wait nine days?"

"Nope."

"You're fine. It's the caffeine talking."

Probably. "No, it's not the caffeine talking. It's me and the fact that I have been doing so much school this past month that I am going to _die_, literally die, talking!" Yeah, it's definitely the caffeine.

"Stiles," Derek growls in a rather passable Schwarzenegger impression that Stiles absolutely does not laugh through. "Come with me if you want to live."

x-x-x

So they go to Davis.

Stiles insists on driving like Derek insists that it was time to get rid of the Jeep, an old argument that's more comfortable than confrontational at this point, and it ends like it always does: with Derek driving but the Jeep, not the Camaro, and they sign their truce by singing along to the 80s music on the radio. They get snacks at a gas station as they pass through Orland, Derek paying for sodas and Stiles for chips, and by the time they pull up to Scott and Allison's apartment some two hours later, it almost seems normal that they've driven a hundred and twenty-odd miles on a whim. They haven't called ahead and it is an unexpected, in between trip – it was too soon after Allison's birthday and too far before Scott's, and at this point the baby's is still a rough guess at best – so they sweep through the door with a "Hi honeys, we're home" and say that they just happened to be in the neighborhood. But Allison smiles and laughs and presses her forehead to theirs affectionately and Scott grins and drags them both into a back-pounding hug, and everyone agrees on Italian for dinner.

They chat about nothing in particular, school and work and family and The Kids, catching up on everything that has happened since they'd last been together like this at New Years. Scott is up for a pay raise at work, but isn't sure if he would accept it or not – he graduates in June, and the plan has always been to move back to Beacon Hills, but with the baby coming… He and Derek immediately start listing pros and cons and plotting distances and finances on mental paper. Allison rolls her eyes fondly and asks if Stiles has finished his paper.

"Yes, Mom," but he smiles as he says it, reaching out to rub her couldn't-possibly-be-another-six-weeks belly. "You guys are going to be great parents."

"You guys are going to be great uncles."

"The best," Stiles agrees, and kicks Scott under the table when he tries to pick up the check. Later, right when they were getting ready to load back into the car and hit to road for home, Stiles hugs him close and tells him that he should stay.

x-x-x

"Just so you know," he says when they get back to Derek's ('my laptop is there,' Stiles tells the voice in his head that wonders why he didn't ask to be dropped off at his apartment. 'I didn't ask,' the voice responds. 'I totally expected this to happen.') later that night. They went right back to the couch, dropping into the same spots as the afternoon and staring in dismay at the remotes across the room. A quick rock-paper-scissors match and they both give up the idea of watching anything for ten whole minutes until Stiles finally breaks in the silence. "This doesn't count as a vacation."

Derek rolls his eyes. "Oh my god, you are so needy."

"Yeah," Stiles agrees, digging always-too-cold toes beneath Derek's always warm thighs. "But you love me anyway."

He smiles when he says it, easy and casual like it's second nature, and it sounds like warmth and happiness and good things – like six years of favorite movies, spontaneous road trips, Chinese food fights, badly translated Latin texts that lead to badly translated planning and barely scraping by the skin of their teeth. Like high school and college and first apartments and the house in the woods with the kitchen table that is the best place to study, where Stiles has a drawer and a mug and a chair and things that are his with all the time he spends there. Like Thanksgiving dinners with six turkeys because there's so many of them, crammed elbow to elbow in the no-longer-formal dining room of the Stilinski family home and fighting over the pies Mrs. McCall (the elder, not the couldn't-possibly-be-another-six-weeks) spends all day baking. Like family, built up from ashes around them, brick by brick, safety and warmth and finally, _finally_, coming home.

"Yeah," Derek agrees, digging strong hands over Stiles' weak arches. "I do."

The ex-governor of California drives a car through the front of a police station as Stiles whispers in disbelief, "Holy fuck, you _love_ me."

The room fills with the ratta-tatta-tatta of Hollywood gunfire and the thump-thudda-thudda of heartbeats, both of theirs, heavy and happy and _home_, ('this should be awkward,' Stiles tells the voice in his head that wonders what took so long and why did this have to happen with _The Terminator_ playing in the background. 'My best friend is in love with me.' 'Shut the fuck up,' the voice responds. 'You love him like a Christina Perri song.') and Derek drags a thumb down a particular spot on his instep that always makes him purr. It's not awkward. "You love me like I love you, holy fuck, we're like a _couple_."

Derek's hands glide from his feet to his ankles to his calves, warm and familiar and content, and it's so glaringly obvious that he wonders why it took them six years to get here; because here's where they've been really, all this time, building this thing between them and ripping out commas, Derek and Stiles. They've been Derek and Stiles for a very long time now. "This long," he says like he can read Stiles' mind, and _six years_, he probably can. "And I think we've gone common law."

And he laughs at that, throws his head back and laughs. "I really hate this movie," he says when he can breathe again.

"I really hate your Jeep."

All Stiles can say to that is "I love you."

"I always have," Derek tells him, and suddenly the hands on his skin are hot, too hot, and that small point of contact isn't enough – Stiles wants to climb across the couch and into his lap, wants to trace six years worth of inevitability into his skin with his fingers, his mouth, wants to taste him and find out what belonging feels like on his tongue. There's six years of missed opportunities, of not talking, of it's about time and why now, why now, why not before and we've had so many chances between them, a whole couch and a layer of clothing and Stiles wants to climb across, climb right inside, climb underneath all of it until it's just us and we and together. Stiles _wants_.

"I'm not sure if you're actually a romantic person, or if you're just quoting Kyle Reese at me."

"I can't believe you got that reference."

"I can't believe I ate the whole thing," he says as he climbs into Derek's lap, pressing long and hard and feverishly hot against him and tugging hands through his hair to pull his face up, up, up. "Der, focus. God, I can't believe that I'm common law married to an asshole who takes romance cues from terrible 80s Schwarzenegger movies."

"Shut the hell up," Derek says as he kisses him. "You talk too much."


End file.
